


Escorts

by Ook



Category: Captain America (Movies), Doctor Who (2005), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Author on soapbox, Friendship, Gen, Planned Parenthood, Protectiveness, Reproductive Rights, Women's Rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a series of well known fictional characters from various universes act as clinic escort volunteers for an OC who needs medical advice or treatment at a Planned Parenthood Clinic.</p><p>Not intended to be triggery, but does mention, briefly, the various reasons one might have for visiting a women's health clinic. </p><p>Also contains my opinions; and I am pro choice all the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You

**Author's Note:**

> So. Yesterday I fully intended to work on Marrying A Mob. But instead, I got to thinking about family planning, and the concentrated attack on women's rights that seems to be developing over in the US right now. And I remembered (vaguely) a conversation I'd seen on Tumblr (somewhere) about how Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes would behave while escorting people through the gauntlet of impolite and shouty bigots to the clinic doors.  
> And then I wrote this. It is complete, but if anyone can think of other (fictional) people who'd do the same thing; suggestions are welcome.

Perhaps it happens like this. Maybe you need a prescription for birth control pills. Or perhaps the condom split. Maybe, for whatever reason, you need an abortion. Perhaps you need medical advice about your pregnancy. Or lack thereof. Maybe you need a health check, and you’re a woman. The details aren’t all that important. 

There are almost countless people you could be, and almost countless reasons you need to visit a doctor about your gynaecological health. You know that. Your health is important. You are important. You have a right to make free and informed decisions about your body and your life. 

But, maybe you’re young and can’t go to the family doctor about this, maybe you’re a student, or working two jobs and still barely paying the rent, or you have two kids and one income in the family, or your Government has graciously allowed your employers to avoid giving you full health coverage, because God(dess) knows, their delicate feelings are more important than your bodily health. Or all of the above.

Fortunately, there’s a Planned Parenthood clinic in the neighbourhood where you live, or work, or study, or at least in a place you can get to. And you have an appointment. And you’re going.

But.

The thing is, there are people out there. People who are going to be there; watching you come to your appointment like it’s some kind of crime. Like you should be ashamed of yourself. Like there’s only one reason you have to go to such a clinic, and they know it, and their disapproval is relevant to your life, your choices, or lack of them.

You know they’ll be there. Trying to “talk you out of it.” Making sure that you feel shame and fear; making sure that no woman who dares to try to decide her life, her body, her choices, does so without enduring an entirely unnecessary gauntlet. 

Your choices are so important to them, you see. 

You are a woman; and maybe you’ve had sex, (or are planning to) and maybe you did so freely, consenting, and so you should be punished for being a slut. Or maybe (they think) you didn’t take enough care of yourself, and so you were attacked, betrayed. And you should be punished for being a victim, and daring to be visible. Perhaps you should be punished simply for being poor. You know it’s all bullshit, but it’s still going to be difficult, walking that gauntlet.

So now, in your house, in your car, in your workplace, you prepare. 

Perhaps you slick on a bit of make up for war paint. Maybe you cover or uncover your head. Wear running shoes, or change your boots. Maybe you pick your clothes for comfort, or for defense, or to make a statement. Maybe they’re chosen for camouflage. What you need, what you can do to prepare, you do.

However. Not everyone in the world involved with the clinics is an asshole. You are not doing this completely alone. There are volunteers, who will escort people through the barrage of shouted “advice”, who will stand beside you as you make your choices. And you’ve arranged it, and this is where you meet the organiser.

The organiser is a woman, too. Today she’s looking faintly harassed. Apparently she wasn’t expecting some of these volunteers. You don’t care; as long as they’re not going to suddenly start shouting about the Luv-ah-GAWD and why you should feel more shame about yourself. You look at the volunteer assigned to escort you. 

And this is where we’re going to get a little more concrete, a little more individualistic. Because these are very… particular clinic escorts.


	2. Thor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what Thor's stance on women's rights in Asgard is; but I don't think Jane and Darcy would have left him ignorant about Midgard's varying situations.

“Greetings!” the nine-foot tall blonde giant says, and he’s as hearty and cheery as if you were meeting in a, a, banqueting hall, maybe, or possibly 500 years ago. He puts out his (enormous) hand; you do the same and soon you’re staring dumbly as _Thor_ shakes your hand with every evidence of delight; and very fine motor muscle control. “I am your escort. Well met this day!”

“I—do you know what you volunteered for?” you say, perhaps a little weakly, but hey. Thor. He beams.

“My Jane explained much to me; I would be honoured to accompany you.” His face sets into sober lines. He looks closer to the prince you’ve heard he is, than the larger than life goofball you feared. “Midgardian customs are strange to me, at times; but assisting another’s quest I understand well.”

“Oh,” you say, and however hard the choices are that might be awaiting you, you can’t help but smile. “A quest.” To the Planned Parenthood clinic. Well, then.

“Every quest has its tests,” Thor rumbles gently. “But few quests must be completed alone.”

He’s quiet, when he walks, for such a big man. He makes small talk: telling you about his Jane, about the things he likes most about Midgard. Midgardian delicacies are rapidly becoming sought after in all Asgard. “Especially” he says, eyes twinkling, “the noble pastry called Pop-Tarts.”

You giggle. And then, as the amount of people lining the walkway to the clinic becomes apparent, you tense. Thor’s not stupid, he spots it right away. 

He stands, if anything, taller. His right hand strays to his belt, and you blink, because you hadn’t spotted his unpronounceable hammer before now. He flings the edges of his cloak back, and looks sternly at the chanters and the shouters.

“Be silent!” he snaps at them. “The lady is on a quest of her own choosing; she does not need your hindrance.” And there must be something about being a prince, about being raised to command, because they all stop, briefly, at the tone of command in his voice. And when they do start up again, it’s quieter. Easier to ignore.

Thor strolls along the walkway; and starts talking to you about poetry. He begins to declaim a few stanzas of an epic about a hero’s search for wisdom, but stops when he reaches the door of the clinic.

“I will await your return,” he assures you gravely. “Go, and complete your quest. I shall work on my poetry the while.”

He takes up his post, back to the doorway, staring down the crowd and their poorly spelt signs and hateful, ignorant mutters. The edges of his cloak flutter in a mysterious breeze, and Thor stands tall, and proud and patient, as you enter the clinic.

You don’t look back once the door closes. He said he’d wait. And you believe him.

You’re curious about how his poetry will sound, too.


	3. Rory Williams and Amy Pond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what it took for Amy and Rory to make it back to the 21st century, but they're not going to waste their time on unimportant things now they're here.

“Two volunteers?” you ask, a bit nervously. “I—are they going to be that bad?”

“No, love.” The red-headed Scotswoman cheerfully reassures you. “Just, we’re in the habit of doing things together, Rory and me.”

“If you’re rather just one of us...” her English husband says, quiet and steady. “That’s fine, too.” The redhead—Amy, her name is—pouts, just a little.

“Oh, no, I just—” You glance across the lot; where the crowds are gathered.

“Yeah, they’re a bit shouty, aren’t they?” Amy agrees. “But they can’t really _do_ anything; and we’ll make sure they know you’re not alone.”

You’re not so sure they can’t do anything; not really. These people are British; they probably don’t get what it’s like in other places.

“Shall we?” Rory says, and he smiles at you, open and confident. You find a small smile, somewhere, and offer it to both of them.

They bracket you, one on either side, and Amy talks about New York, and Rory mentions he’s a nurse, and asks you about your job. You can focus on just them, and the rest of the walkway—the crowds of anti-this and anti-that shouting—fade, a little. It’s like you’re in another world; a small private bubble composed of you and this husband-and-wife team.

Amy’s talking about waiting at (or is it for? You can’t quite hear) doctors; how you always have to be on time, but they don’t, and Rory chimes in with his opinions on the importance of nurses; and they grin at each other. You get the feeling they’ve got a private joke going, but you don’t mind.

You’re not alone, and they aren’t afraid, so you decide maybe you won’t be, either.

“You go on in,” Rory says to you, and you’re surprised to see you’re already at the door. “We’ll wait and walk you back.” Amy shoots you the thumbs up, and turns to sit by the steps.

As you go in, you glance over your shoulder and see Rory heading towards the shouters, a look of quiet, immovable determination on his face.


	4. Steve Rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is old enough and grew up poor enough to know how important healthcare and control of your own fertility is for those with wombs. Also, he was raised with manners.

“Um.” It’s rude to stare, but _really_. “I didn’t think this would be the sort of thing you’d be... comfortable with.”

Captain America flushes, slightly.

“I am, if you are,” he says awkwardly, and something in you tightens. He must see it, because he goes on to say:

“Just, I’m—they’ll take this as a statement, if they recognise me. You might not want to be part of that; journalists and newsies and—well. You can ask for another volunteer, if you like.”

“If that’s your attitude,” you say, and you take a deep breath, “why are you here?” You don’t want to be a pawn in some politico’s posturing; you just want to get into the clinic, and see your doctor.

“My mom was a nurse, you know.” He says. “and—I’m really not—people might want me to support their, uh, vision of America, but I don’t have a particular pitch to shill. I just…” He pauses, looking for words. “Sometimes people could use a friend or two, is all.”

“Friends?”

He looks at the crowd across the way.

“Never did agree with people trying to make everyone think the same as they do,” he says, quietly. “Never will.”

“And you don’t like bullies?” Everyone knows that about Captain America. Just like, you realise, they know he grew up poor. And sickly, at least until the Serum. “So you always side with the underdog?” You try not to be mad; after all, he’s here, isn’t he? Offering to help?

He’s still a little pink with feeling. It’s never occurred to you that Captain America is still such a young man, before. You feel vaguely guilty; he’s clearly had to defend himself about this, and you should have known better than to assume things about a famous person, just because they’re famous. 

“Not the underdog. Just… whoever’s in the right, I guess.”

“And that’s me.” You try not to be surprised at how simply, how straightforwardly he seems to see the situation.

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiles, and ducks his head. “That’s you.”

The walk is strangely quiet. Captain America draws himself up, and marches—there’s no other word for it—by your side; escorting you with care and dignity to the clinic. It’s pretty amazing. Pretty distracting, too.

The shouting shifts focus, from you to him. Apparently, the crowd views his presence as a betrayal.

“Sorry, Captain,” you whisper, as you approach the clinic door. “They seem—I think you’ve lost some fans here today.”

“Don’t be.” Captain America tells you. “It’s a privilege, to be able to do this.” He grins. “Besides,” he adds, out of the corner of his mouth. “I kinda like messing with people’s heads, a bit. If they need it. And these folk surely do.”

He opens the clinic door for you. Closes it behind you. Stands with his arms folded, surveying the crowd.

You can’t see, but you’re pretty sure he’s looking at the crowd with his famous “disappointed in YOU” face.


	5. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assuming he remembers it; Bucky has the same background as Steve. He learnt the same things from it. Even if he doesn't, one of the fundamental aspects of his personality is a drive to _protect._ Why not combine the two?

You look at your escort, who really appears to loom very well.

He looks back at you, silent and tall. 

There is a pause, instead of the expected social interactions. It throws you, just a little. You’re on edge already; the faint air of menace rolling off the volunteer is just a little… difficult to deal with. You’re not surprised that the organizer had some trouble finding this volunteer someone to walk with. 

He’s a little scary, at first look. The slightly blank look and flat affect don’t help, and neither does the fact that the man is over six foot, built like he throttles people for a living, and wears nothing but black. Even his gloves are black.

Also it’s not really cold enough for gloves. 

You put the stare and the build and one or two other things together though. Maybe he’s a veteran. The gloves might not be for warmth, but for show. Or to conceal. In any case, it’s no skin off your nose what he wears, or thinks, so long as he’s polite. He keeps glancing about himself, awkward.

“Hi.” You find your voice at last. He gives you a brisk nod. “You don’t—have you done this before? Escorted a girl to—to the clinic?”

He blinks. Shakes his head “New mission,” he says; and yep, definitely ex-military of some kind. “But don’t worry.” He’s smiling, just a little now. It makes an amazing difference to his face. “I’ve got the skills.”

“That’s good to hear.” You look around the parking lot, uneasy. What if the protesters and trouble makers leave their lines by the clinic and come here? They could write down your number plate, could shout here, could… do anything.

“We’re not under observation. Route’s clear,” he tells you, crisply. “And I said, don’t worry. I’ll get you there safe.” From the set of his mouth, the look in his dark eyes, you believe him completely.

“Thank you,” you tell him, sincerely. “I just—thank you.” 

He makes a small, awkward shift of his shoulders that maybe he means for a shrug.

“Shall we?” He holds his arm out, almost like he’s asking for this dance, but he drops it hurriedly when you blink at him. You set off together, and he’s completely silent.

You’d mind, maybe—you could do with some distraction—but then you notice something. His eyes are never still. He’s observing constantly, shoulders tensed, legs flexed. He’s ready for something. For anything.

You hit the fringes of the crowd, and he hears what they’re saying. What they’re calling you. His lips thin.

“It’s just words.” You try to keep calm, to not hear. “Just words.” They aren’t true, and they don’t know anything about who you are and why you’re here. You tell yourself that, fiercely. 

“Sure it is.” Your escort stands a little straighter, and peels off his gloves. There’s a bright flash from his left hand, and you blink—was that metal? He fumbles with his jacket, and his left sleeve comes away. You stare at what’s revealed below.

“Uh. Mind carrying that for me?” he asks, a little sheepish, as he waves the strip of cloth at you. “I just figure—these folks seem to be here for a show.” He waggles the fingers of his metal left arm at you. “I’ll give them one.” His grin sharpens, turns lethal.

“Sure.” You take the sleeve and tuck it in your purse, a little dazed. 

Your escort prowls at your side like he’s looking for something to kill. He glares at the protesters—the hateful, hurtful words and faces and attitudes—as if his gaze really could kill. A shiver runs down your spine. 

There’s a funny ripple effect in the shouting. The protesters nearest you shut up as they get a good look at just who is escorting you, and detect the complete _menace_ he’s broadcasting. When he’s out of range, they start shouting again, but quieter.

He’s six foot of black clad lethal grace, with a metal arm, and he’s escorting you. Getting you to the clinic door is his new mission.

You’ve never felt so safe in your _life._

At the door, you tell him this, and thank him again. He smiles, crookedly. Touches his temple with a metal finger; half salute, half wave as he opens the door for you.

“Not something I usually hear,” he says, more to himself than you.

“Well, I’m pretty sure, you keep volunteering as a clinic escort, you’ll hear it so often you get sick of it.”

His smile widens. “Wouldn’t that be a thing,” he says, and turns to glare the crowd into quiet. “Wouldn’t that just.”


End file.
